


feel you on my skin

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “What are you doing?”Jaskier looked up. “What do you think? I’m borrowing a shirt, obviously.” He looked back down and kept digging; he found a promising shirt at the bottom of Geralt’s bag, a plain shirt, thin and well-worn.“Did I say you could do that?” he replied with a hint of amusement.Jaskier hummed, standing up and admiring the shirt. “Did I ask?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 1144





	feel you on my skin

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

It started easily enough: Jaskier’s shirt had gotten soaked at the tavern and so he went through Geralt’s things to find one of _his_ shirts, because his were all dirty and smelly and he had _standards_ , thank you very much. Geralt watched from the bed, surprisingly calm.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier looked up. “What do you think? I’m borrowing a shirt, obviously.” He looked back down and kept digging; he found a promising shirt at the bottom of Geralt’s bag, a plain shirt, thin and well-worn.

“Did I say you could do that?” he replied with a hint of amusement.

Jaskier hummed, standing up and admiring the shirt. “Did I ask?”

He heard Geralt’s amused snort, but the man didn’t say anything else. He really could be a softie. Turning away, Jaskier went to the mirror in the room - an old, cracked thing - and pulled off his soaked shirt, replacing it with the one he had found in Geralt’s bag.

He realized, immediately, he had made a terrible mistake: the shirt was _huge_.

A bit long, despite them having similar height, but especially baggy. Jaskier heard Geralt snort again, obviously enjoying this way too much. Well, fuck him. Jaskier turned on his heels. “How do I look?”

“Like an idiot,” he replied, but there was pure fondness in his eyes.

Jaskier grinned and clapped his hands, forever the showman. “Well, chop, chop.” He brushed wrinkles out of the shirt as he headed for the door, grabbing his lute on the way. “We need to make enough money tonight to buy daddy a few new shirts.”

“Never call yourself that again,” Geralt deadpanned. “I’m begging.”

Jaskier laughed, high-pitched and wild, as he spun around in the hall, facing Geralt with a toothy, lopsided grin. “I’ve never seen you beg a day in your life,” he pointed out. “But okay, fair enough.”

+

Jaskier opened the door to the tavern and felt what was easily a dozen pairs of eyes following him as he walked to the front of the room. Geralt took a seat in the back, hidden in the dark, as Jaskier prepared to play.

Coins were thrown at his feet and he beamed with each _clank_ , grinning wider.

Finally, when he was finished, he gathered the coins before standing up, headed in the direction of Geralt--but he was quickly stopped by a pair of giggling women - girls, really. One of them eyed him openly, up and down, up and down.

At first Jaskier thought they were flirting, but then--

“Are you, like - “ she started, giggling behind her hand. Her friend swatted her.

Jaskier was beginning to wonder if they really were teenagers, flushed and giggling quietly to each other, looking at Jaskier like he was something inhuman. Finally, the other girl squared her shoulders and asked:

“Are you fucking the Witcher?” she asked as her friend clung to her arm. 

“The White Wolf,” her friend added, like Jaskier needed the clarification. 

Jaskier was so taken back he didn’t know what to say. He was, for once, at a loss for words. The girls giggled again. The shorter one said, “They’re totally fucking,” and her friend agreed, eyeing Jaskier, “ _Totally_.”

Jaskier was not shy, especially about sex, but suddenly his face was burning.

“I’m sorry, _what?”_

But the girls had already run off, still giggling, out of the tavern.

Jaskier stood there long enough Geralt came searching for him, looking vaguely concerned. He touched his arm; Jaskier ignored the way his heart skipped a beat at the skin contact. “Are you okay?”

“Um.” His mouth was dry. “Yeah.”

Why the fuck did they think they were fucking? Because they traveled together?

_Big fucking leap, ladies,_ he thought, as he followed Geralt to the table, where a drink was awaiting him. Geralt almost looked sheepish as he sat, and Jaskier smiled. His first instinct was to tease the fuck out of him, but. Not tonight. He took a sip of the ale and sighed, contented to listen as Geralt told him about the job he’d be taking tomorrow night.

+

Jaskier crawled in bed that night. They switched out who slept in the bed, and who slept on the floor. Jaskier had lucked out tonight and he was basking in it. He sighed and laid his head on the pillow, eyelashes fluttering.

He smelled it, then, musky and strong, and his toes curled almost instantly.

Jaskier opened his eyes, half-expecting Geralt to be in bed with him but of course not, that was absurd. Looking down, he realized he hadn’t taken off his shirt. He usually did before he slept. Huh.

But he found himself not wanting to; the smell was unexpectedly comforting.

Before he knew it, he had lulled off to sleep and he had dreams of Geralt. Not very innocent dreams, at that.

+

“Fuck,” he said as he sat up in the morning. 

Geralt rolled over on the floor. “What?” he asked groggily.

Jaskier looked down at him. His heart skipped a beat. “Nothing.”

+

Jaskier never returned the shirt, and Geralt never asked for it. Good thing, too, because Jaskier found himself wearing it a lot. Until-- “Fuck,” he muttered as he fingered the shirt. The smell had finally left it. Now it smelled like Jaskier, like oak and honey. It was a good smell, but not what he wanted, he realized.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but he found himself unexpectedly upset. He tried not to think too hard about why he was upset or why he wanted his shirt to smell of Geralt, especially considering the man didn’t smell especially good or anything. He was a Witcher, mind you, mostly smelling of sweat and dirt and death. But it had, somehow, become one of Jaskier’s favorite scents. What a weird world.

So, he impulsively did what he did best: asked for what he wanted, “Can I borrow another shirt?” he asked one morning.

Geralt was looking over his swords, cleaning them, sharpening them. “Why?”

“Um.” Jaskier hadn’t expected that question somehow. “I don’t know.”

He had bought a couple shirts, hand sewn, in markets since that day weeks ago. He had no need for one of Geralt’s few, ratty shirts.

Geralt looked up, expression perfectly blank. The corners of his mouth twitched, and for a moment Jaskier thought he was going to tell him to fuck off, rightfully so, but then he nodded at his bag. Silent permission.

Jaskier wasn’t going to push his luck; he walked over and pulled out another of Geralt’s shirts, returning the other one. He didn’t need it, not anymore. He swapped his own shirt, perfectly wearable, out with Geralt’s. Immediately, he was overwhelmed by Geralt’s natural smell, toes curling.

“Um. Wow.”

Geralt looked at him again. “You okay?”

Jaskier nodded quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. “Just peachy.”

Maybe, he realized with startling clarity, the girls had been onto something. They weren’t fucking, never had, likely never would, but Jaskier realized he wouldn’t be against it - actually, he kind of wanted it. “Fuck,” he said. Geralt just grunted in reply.

+

It was a new town, two entirely different girls. Jaskier finished playing and went to the bar to grab a drink, maybe even a snack, when they approached him, eyeing him like he was something of an oddity. He wasn’t, he knew, traveling bards were common.

“Can I help you?” he asked, a little harsh.

One of the girls flinched back like she’d been slapped, and he felt guilty.

“You’re traveling with that Witcher, right?” the other girl asked, pointing at Geralt.

Geralt looked up, likely having heard her. Jaskier’s cheeks flushed because surely this was not happening _again_. “Perhaps,” he replied slowly. “Why do you want to know?”

“We need his help!” the smaller girl exclaimed, bouncing on her feet. “Right, Ara?”

The other girl - Ara - did not look convinced. “We do not, Fray, stop being such a coward and just ask.” Ara nudged her forward, and Fray stood in front of Jaskier. She actually looked older than he first thought, just terribly shy.

“We’ve - we’ve heard rumors,” she whispered. “Of you and him.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He could still feel Geralt watching them. He was probably just waiting for the first sign of a threat, but he wasn’t going to find one because Jaskier knew where this was headed and he wished, desperately, to derail it. But his throat was dry.

“That you’re not just friends,” Ara said when Fray hesitated a beat too long.

Jaskier noticed her staring pointedly at his - no, fuck, _Geralt’s_ \- shirt and he realized, suddenly, where the rumor had started. All of this over a shirt. Well, two shirts. He fidgeted awkwardly. “Um. Oh.”

“Are you?” Fray asked. Jaskier couldn’t find the words to answer. He shook his head. It was the truth. “Oh,” she breathed, and she almost looked relieved. Ara nudged her again. She smiled shyly. “Well, then, I was wondering if you’d be interested in accom - “

But then Geralt was _right there,_ grabbing his arm, “I need him for a second.”

Without waiting for a reply from the girls, or even Jaskier, he dragged him away, out of the tavern. It was cold and he shivered. Geralt stopped, still holding his arm, his shoulders a tense line. Jaskier pushed his own conflicting feelings down to ask, “Are you okay, Geralt?”

Geralt turned to look at him. “What did they mean? _Rumors?”_

Jaskier shifted on his feet. There was a rushing in his ears. “There’s, um - it’s stupid, Geralt,” he assured him, honestly. He gently pulled his arm out of Geralt’s grip. “Forget it.”

He turned and walked away. Geralt followed silently.

+

He was playing with fire and he knew it, but he kept borrowing Geralt’s shirts. It wasn’t his fault, really, because Geralt kept letting him, no questions asked. And the rumors only grew, reaching almost every inch of the Continent. Jaskier worked hard to keep the details of the rumors from reaching Geralt’s ears.

At night, he would wait until Geralt left the room and touch himself, smelling Geralt’s shirt. It was embarrassing, frankly, but he couldn’t stop.

The floodgates had opened and there was no stopping it.

Jaskier had always known, deep down, that he teetered on the edge of falling for Geralt but somehow he was always able to avoid it. By sleeping with pretty women, by stepping away when Geralt stepped closer. If he didn’t think about it, he was fine but with Geralt’s smell around him, all the time, _all-consuming,_ he was falling and fast.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if Geralt felt the same way, but he didn’t.

Had Jaskier asked? Well, not exactly, but he knew Geralt had his eyes on Yennefer. Rightfully so; Jaskier didn’t like her very much but she was gorgeous and strong and sharp.

He wasn’t about to ask and embarrass himself, thank you very much.

But then--”They think we’re fucking,” Geralt said as soon as he opened the door. He was covered in guts, not very appealing, having just finished his job for the night obviously. Jaskier wanted to ask how he knew, but there was no point.

“They do,” he confirmed, crossing his legs on the bed. He waited for Geralt to say something else, something bitter and angry, but he didn’t. He just closed the door and stepped closer, watching Jaskier with an odd expression. Jaskier’s skin prickled. He smelled Geralt all around him, both from the actual thing and from the shirt still clinging to his skin.

“You knew?” he asked, shrugging his bag off. He sat on the bed, no doubt getting blood and guts _everywhere_. Normally Jaskier would complain but right now he didn’t care.

Jaskier fidgeted with the hem of his - _Geralt’s_ \- shirt. “I did,” he confirmed quietly.

“Why do they think that?” he asked. He didn’t sound offended, at least, just curious. He watched Jaskier, waiting.

Fuck, if he told the truth... Jaskier knew what would happen: Geralt would never let him borrow a shirt again, and understandably so. But he didn’t like lying. Well, he didn’t mind it, but he preferred being honest with Geralt. Only Geralt. “They’ve spotted me in your clothes and I don’t know, it’s stupid to think we’re fucking based solely on that.”

Geralt stared at him, expression perfectly blank. Jaskier dreaded every second, waiting.

“Huh,” he said finally.

Jaskier blinked. Once, twice. He had expected something more than _huh_ , but whatever, he could work with this. He cleared his throat and tugged at the hem of his shirt. “I’ll stop it,” he said, even as the words scratched painfully at his throat, “Wearing your clothes, I mean. The rumors will probably stop after a while if I do.”

Geralt tilted his head, in that way he always did when he was curious or figuring something out. “Okay,” he said. There was no infliction in his voice, perfectly even.

“Okay,” he replied, a little too cheerily. “Problem solved.”

+

But when he tried to sleep that night it just wasn’t the same; in just a few weeks, he had gotten so used to sleeping surrounded by Geralt’s smell it was hard to sleep without it. It was a comfort that eased him, relaxed him and made him feel safe.

Without saying a word, he sat up. Well, whatever, he could survive a few nights with no sleep.

But, of course, Geralt with his enhanced senses and all that, heard him. “What’s wrong?” he asked with a hint of concern. He sat up, too, on the floor. “Are you okay?”

“Just having problem sleeping,” he answered honestly enough.

Geralt grunted in the dark. “Why?”

Jaskier wanted to answer honestly, but he knew better. “I’m just - lonely,” he said for lack of a better explanation. Though Geralt hadn’t been sleeping with him, it had still kind of felt that way, surrounded by the scent of the man he wanted so badly. But he couldn’t; he would never take that first step in fear of ruining their relationship.

“Huh,” Geralt said again in that same voice.

Jaskier fidgeted with the blanket. “Just go back to sleep.”

But then - he felt the bed dip under Geralt’s weight. “I’ve been thinking we should start sharing the bed anyway,” he said like it was no big deal, like Jaskier’s entire body wasn’t on fire at the mere thought of sleeping with Geralt, sexually or not. “Scoot over.”

Jaskier numbly scooted over. Geralt laid down and Jaskier did, too, ignoring the loud beating of his heart. He wondered if Geralt could hear it. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

“I’ve been thinking about other stuff, too,” Geralt said.

Jaskier was a bit surprised; Geralt wasn’t much of a talker, but he seemed to be stuck on talking tonight, the one night Jaskier would’ve been happy to just ignore each other until they both fell asleep. He tucked his hands under his head. In the dark, he couldn’t really see him, just the outlines of his face as he laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. “About?”

“I had no reason to let you borrow my shirts,” he said, and for a moment he said nothing else.

Jaskier’s eyelashes fluttered, biting the inside of his cheek. “You were just being nice,” he said finally.

“And when have you known me to be nice?” he replied archly, but there was a hint of amusement there too. “I mean, I’ll save innocents from death, yes, but I don’t see the point in playing nice with them.”

Jaskier smiled a bit, “But I’m different,” he said, somewhat teasing but —

“You are,” Geralt replied, surprisingly soft. His heart skipped a beat. “I’m realizing that, slowly but surely.”

Jaskier hated when Geralt said stuff like that. It was rare, but it happened and each time his heart would crawl up his throat. But he knew better; Geralt just meant he was his friend, and Geralt didn’t have many friends if any. “Um, so if you weren’t being nice,” he stammered, “why didn’t you stop me?” Because he had borrowed most of Geralt’s shirts at this point, though he always returned them when they stopped smelling of him, which was fairly quickly.

Geralt suddenly sat up. “We should have this talk… _not_ in the dark.”

The corners of Jaskier’s mouth quirked up, “Um, what?”

But Geralt was already leaning over, lighting the candles by the bed. It wasn’t much, but they could at least see each other clearly now. Jaskier sat up slowly, feeling unexpectedly overwhelmed. Geralt sat back and looked over at him.

“Oh no,” Jaskier said. “Is this a serious conversation?” he asked lightly even as he felt like running out of the room and potentially never returning.

Geralt smiled, brief but true. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Except neither of them said anything for a few long seconds. Jaskier fidgeted with the blanket. Geralt was perfectly still, staring at Jaskier’s fidgeting hands. He should stop, he knew, but he couldn’t. Finally, Geralt reached over and grabbed one of his hands. He froze.

“Is this okay?” he asked, and Jaskier nodded dumbly, not trusting his mouth.

Geralt sighed heavily. “I’m going to be blunt,” he said. “Because I hate misunderstandings.” Jaskier nodded again, still at a loss for words. Geralt’s hand was so, so warm and a little rough. He barely registered Geralt’s next words, “I let you borrow my shirts because… I enjoyed seeing you in them.”

Jaskier blinked, slowly absorbing the words. “Um. _What?_ ” he blurted before he could stop himself.

“It was wrong of me,” he continued, almost like Jaskier had never spoken. “But there was something almost… _primal_ in me that got off on seeing you in my clothes, smelling our scents mixing, knowing others - strangers - would see you and - and think you were mine.” If he didn’t know, Jaskier would say Geralt looked embarrassed, and slightly ashamed. “And they did, evidently, and you had to live with the consequences.” Then, most shockingly, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier was still stuck on, “But why?” he asked, eyes wide. “I don’t understand.” But Gods, he wanted to. Because there was no way Geralt was saying what he _thought_ he was saying — that he felt the same way, in any capacity.

Geralt turned properly in the bed, an unexpectedly serious expression on his face. “I think you do.”

“Oh,” he breathed. “ _Oh_.”

His heart was thumping loudly, almost painfully in his chest. Geralt stared at him with dark, unblinking eyes. His palms were suddenly sweaty. “In the morning,” he said gruffly. “Okay?”

Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking, but he nodded anyway.

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” he said before he leaned over, pinching the candle wicks between his fingers.

+

In the morning, they didn’t talk. It was awkward and the tension in the air was almost too much.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, placing his bag on the bed. He pulled out one of his shirts and offered it silently. Jaskier stared at it for a few long seconds. Finally, he took it. It was soft between his fingers and, when he pulled it over his head, he sighed happily, surrounded by the comforting smell that _was_ Geralt.

Geralt watched him for a moment, eyes dark. Jaskier decided if Geralt could be honest, he could, too.

“Do you know why I’ve been borrowing your shirts?” he asked without looking up. Geralt grunted in reply. He smiled, small, finally looking up. “At first, I really did just need a shirt, you know, but then…” His cheeks were pink, he could feel it. “I liked being surrounded by your smell.”

He barely realized how fucking _weird_ that sounded until the words were out of his mouth.

“Just, it’s comforting, you know, because _you’re_ comforting — to _me_ , and — ”

Geralt reached out and stopped him, a hand on his neck. His hand was so big; he could easily kill Jaskier, but he never would. Jaskier trusted him with his life, and it was scary.

“Stop talking,” he said gruffly. Jaskier nodded quickly, listening for once. He stroked his thumb over Jaskier’s jaw, slow and soft. “Can I?”

Jaskier almost wanted to be a brat and ask, “can you _what?”_ But he didn’t; Geralt’s intentions were clear if not in his hand, in his eyes, still dark and perhaps just a little shy. It was an unusual look for him. He smiled, slow. “If you don’t,” he breathed, “I will.”

And so, without missing a beat, Geralt leaned down and forward, pressing their lips together.

It was quick, but charged with emotion. Geralt pulled back and rested their foreheads together. Jaskier took a shaky breath. “Can I keep borrowing your shirts?” he asked. Geralt laughed, their noses brushing together, “Yes.”

But, he found out, he didn’t really need to. Sleeping with Geralt every night, kissing him every second of every day, meant that Jaskier smelled of him even in his own clothes, even when apart.

**Author's Note:**

> support me and my fics!  
> https://korrmin.tumblr.com/writing


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